In a recent interview, poet Donald Hall admitted that in old age the epiphanies that fueled his early work are far fewer -- what's left to say when you've lived a full life? In place of these missing spontaneous inspirations, Hall assembles his poems more by what he calls "brain-work."

Like Hall, Billy Collins is a popular, largely accessible poet who served as U.S. poet laureate. In the same way, the new work of Collins suffers from a seeming lack of new epiphanies, and though it still pays attention to the poem itself, the creative work, something else is missing.

If the poems in "Ballistics" are any indication, Collins has hit a dead end. The very things that make him popular, accessible and clever -- especially around the time of "Picnic, Lightning" -- have solidified into concrete, and like a machine endlessly repeating itself he turns out poems with subtle color variations but which remain in the same mold.

Such critique has circulated in reviews at least since his previous collection, "The Trouble With Poetry." If poetry is to transcend the poet himself it must expand, explore and attempt to break new ground. In "Ballistics," Collins takes the safe route: He stubbornly sticks to what works.

There is plenty here to like, even appreciate. The trustworthy Collins continues to draw people in who may be dismayed trying to understand the ever-troublesome Poetry. For an audience new to poetry as well as to Collins, the book invites readers in.

But to Collins' long-standing audience, the trouble with this poetry is that it serves largely the same fare. Like choosing the same dish at a favorite restaurant, this may be fine, comfortable, even desirable for some. But to others looking for a new flavor, or a new take on an old standard, the dish delivered ultimately will be the same early-bird special, perhaps with different toast or an extra egg.